Steve Martini - The Jury

I shake my head.

“That makes two of us. The guard outside the door makes three. Can you think of a better way to pass messages?” he says.

I don’t answer him, because the thought has crossed my mind and Harry knows it.

“Bet you dollars to doughnuts those papers with all their numbers got shredded as soon as Tash got back to his office and deciphered them.”

I don’t say anything.

He glances at me over the top of his coffee mug, shod feet propped up against the edge of my desk as he sits huddled in one of the client chairs across from me.

“Maybe we should ask Tash for a copy of one of those papers,” he says. “Probably wouldn’t do any good,” he says. “We know what Crone and Tash would say. It’s confidential. Trade secrets.” Harry gives me one of those squinting sideways looks, planting the seeds. He can sense he has set off the little neurons in my brain. He has me thinking in his direction.

“How else could Crone talk to him? He had to tell him that it was getting dicey. That Epperson was about to spill his guts about what was going on, the racial stuff.”

“Let’s assume, just for purposes of argument, that this happened. Communication by numbers,” I tell him. “You’ve seen Tash. Soaking wet maybe he weighs a hundred and fifty pounds. Even if Epperson had a heart problem, he was more than a match for Tash.”

This slows Harry down for a second or two. “You meet a lot of people in jail,” says Harry. “And Crone’s made a lot of friends. Maybe one of them got out. Crone tells Tash to get in touch. You know the cost of a killing these days. One of the few things not touched by inflation,” says Harry. “Some four-time loser might do it for a few coins and a smile from the professor.”

“What does it say about time of death?” I change the subject, point to the coroner’s report on Epperson. Harry, juggling the coffee in one hand, the report in the other, starts to read.

“Sometime after seven. The best they can figure. Based on questioning one of the gardeners. He pulled out about that time and locked up.”

“Did you see a gate?” I ask.

“I talked to one of the cops about that, at the scene. There was a gate down bottom, near the parking lot. But you could come in up above on the service road. There’s a bollard, but anybody could drive around it. Kids did it all the time, according to the cops, when they wanted to park.

“And one other thing,” says Harry. “Whoever killed Epperson smashed all the lights before he climbed up the cross to string him up.”

“There were lights?”

Harry nods. “Big floods pointed up from the ground toward the cross. Cops found broken glass all over the place.”

“Epperson could have done that,” I say.

“It’s possible,” says Harry. “But why bother if you’re gonna hang yourself?”

For this I don’t have an answer. We sit in silence for a few seconds until the phone fills the void, the receptionist out front ringing through.

I answer it, punch the com line. “Who is it?”

“It’s the district attorney’s office. Mr. Tate. His secretary on the line.”

I put my hand over the mouthpiece, look down at line one, which is blinking.

“Something’s up. Tate on the line,” I tell Harry.

“I’ll take it.” I punch the line. “Paul Madriani here.”

“Just a moment for Mr. Tate.” A soft, feline voice on the other end. A little elevator music while she puts me on hold. A few seconds later, the line comes to life.

“Mr. Madriani, Jim Tate here.” Avuncular, confident, man in command. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

I start to confirm this, but he doesn’t care, steps on my response. “I have Evan Tannery here in my office. It’s the Crone thing. I think it would be a good idea if we got together,” he says. “Maybe this afternoon in my office.”

“I’ll have to check, see if I’m free,” I tell him. I know I am, but his attitude is enough to piss me off. I put him on hold and look at Harry.

“It’s Tannery’s boss. He wants to talk.”

“What about?”

“Their teat being in a wringer,” I tell him. “But I doubt that he’s going to admit it over the phone.”

“Could be good news. Could be bad. Maybe they found something on Epperson.”

I consider the possibilities. “We may as well find out.” I punch line one again.

“How about two o’clock?” I tell Tate.

“Can we make it three? I have an earlier engagement.”

“Fine.”

“Just have security call up when you arrive. I’ll have one of my people come down and collect you.” He says it as if Harry and I are lost pieces to a game set.

“Right.”

– -

Harry has some papers to file downtown, the lingering gun liability case, manufacturer’s nightmare. So we decide to leave the office, head across the Coronado Bridge and take a late lunch at a little spot, a hole-in-the-wall across from the courthouse and the D.A.’s office, one of Harry’s haunts.

We stew over lunch, Harry taking bets that any suicide finding will not be blessed until the coroner holds an inquest.

“Tate’s gonna be looking for cover,” he says. “There’s too much profile in this thing. If we roll him over in the courtroom, he goes belly-up and Crone goes back to the university, Tate’s not gonna be able to show his face at all those fashionable charity events. You want my guess,” he says, “he’ll angle to get the judge to order a mistrial to buy himself time.”

“On what grounds?”

Harry shrugs. “What if he admits they failed to disclose some evidence? Oversight,” he says. “Oops.”

“That might get him a week’s continuance, to bring us up to speed. But if I know my man on the bench, Coats isn’t going to order a mistrial. Not unless they’re withholding film. Some other perpetrator chopping up Jordan,” I tell him.

“So what do you think?” asks Harry.

“Better possibility, Tate tries to get Tannery to force the judge’s hand on a dismissal on technical grounds, something the voters won’t understand, then blame it on the judge. I’ll bet they’re up there now burning the oil over the transcript trying to find some way to bury this thing, even if they have to take a lump or two in the process. It’s easier than going down on a verdict in a case that’s been in the headlines for six weeks.”

“I’ll take it,” says Harry. “Jeopardy attaches. Our man goes free. The D.A. can say the court did it; fingers pointing all around, and the taxpayers get handed a bill for a trial that never ended. Sounds like justice to me.”

Harry is talking with his mouth full of pastrami on rye, mustard running out of the corner and down his chin. He wipes it with a napkin. His elbows are on the table, the knot on his tie is halfway to his stomach. It is vintage Harry.

“I talked with some of the guys in the courthouse pressroom. Conventional wisdom is Tate’s running for reelection next year. From what I hear, he has nothing else to do. They take his office away, he’s gonna have to hang out at the senior center. Take up cribbage,” says Harry.

“Let’s hope he’s motivated to deal,” I say.

The place is emptying out. I look at my watch. It’s a little after two. Harry and I finish up and play musical receipts with the tab. Harry has to hit the bathroom, so I end up with it. I stand at the register, peel off a twenty to pay the bill. Take a five and put it on the table for a tip.

I look through the front window of the empty diner; there are people passing by on the sidewalk, a bus at the stop takes on its cargo, then blows brown smoke and like a tornado pulls away from the curb.

Suddenly I can see across four lanes of traffic to the courthouse on the other side. I kill time waiting for Harry, gaze at the far corner west of the courthouse. It is the physique that catches the eye. Stopped at the light talking to some guy is Aaron Tash, all six feet four inches and skinny. There’s no missing him, a walking streetlamp, human equivalent of a praying mantis.